


Bad Santa

by LyricaXXX (LyricaB)



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Yule
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-16
Packaged: 2018-05-07 03:00:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5440991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyricaB/pseuds/LyricaXXX
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <br/>
  <i>Laura leans against his shoulder and strokes his back. “Robbie... It’s Christmas. Ask for what you want. You might be surprised at the answer.” </i>
  <br/>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bad Santa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wendymr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/gifts).



> _After seeing[Wendymr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr)'s Santa picture prompt on LJ last year, my first thought was this naughty Bad Santa idea. It was so insistent that I wrote a few paragraphs to get it to stop shouting in my head. But the Secret Santa 2014 deadline was looming, and the story I was trying to finish was fighting me, so I didn’t have time to do anything with the bits I had written. And then Yule was over, so I never finished the story. _
> 
> _But then Wendymr volunteered to proofread, correct, and Britpick[The Second Aberration ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3156932?view_adult=true) before I posted it to AO3. So I dusted the bits and pieces off and finished this as a thank you and sent it to her. And then I tweaked it even more, so I'm a bit late in posting (a year late!), but...my appreciation is no less genuine._
> 
> _Wendymr, thank you for your help. Thanks for catching my errors, discussions about grammar, links to articles, and tips on Britspeak and spelling. Most of all, thank you for being honest with me and setting me straight on stories since _The Second Aberration_. Your comments always make my stories stronger and help me grow as a writer. And many, many thanks for your kindness and patience while you were doing all that. _

  


* * *

  
  


>   
>  _If you really are Santa, you could do magic._  
>                                                  Bad Santa

  


“Your better halves rrnthrwy.”

Glass clinks against glass, turning Laura’s words into a jumble of consonants, and a brown and ivory shape looms so close into Robbie’s vision that it makes him blink his eyes and take a step back. The spicy evergreen scent of Christmas soap and the strong malt scent of beer wash over him. 

“What?” Robbie blinks as the sounds of a Christmas party in full swing intrudes rudely into his awareness. Despite the noise, he’s been caught wool-gathering, watching with only half interest the interplay between a group of Laura’s friends. Remembering a party years back and her telling him all doctors _‘revert back to medical school’_ after a few drinks. 

As he leans back far enough that his eyes can focus, the colours diverge. Become two bottles of beer frosted with condensation, clutched in Laura’s small hand. He peers down at her, protesting, “You’re crossing me eyes with those!” 

Laura grins up at him, unrepentant, leans closer, and repeats, louder and with careful enunciation, “I said, ‘Your better halves are on their way’.” She waggles her cell phone at him and Lizzie’s Tony, who’s standing beside him. 

Tony raises his eyebrows at Laura and rescues the bottles from her fingers. He gives Robbie an odd sideways glance as he holds one of them out to him. 

Robbie takes it with a nod of thanks and wipes away the tiny crystals of ice that are slithering down the side of the bottle, then dries his fingers on his trousers. He half grins/grimaces at her. “Laura...” he warns. 

Tony doesn’t have the benefit of many years’ exposure to Laura’s sense of humour, nor does he know the many pet names she and Jean have come up with through all those years for him and James. The poor lad might actually think—

Laura ignores him and addresses Tony. “Jean sent a text. She and Lizzie and James are on their way. And Lizzie says to tell you that you’ve sat on your mobile again and turned yourself off.” 

Tony turns away as he digs down into his jeans pocket for his phone. 

Robbie shakes his head at her. “He doesn’t realize you’re joking, you know? No telling what the lad might think about James and me.”

“Who said I was joking?” she responds, her eyes crinkling as she laughs up at him. 

He just shakes his head and takes a drink of beer. It’s as cold as the bottle promised and goes down smoothly. “Nice party,” he says. 

He’s trying to sidetrack her, but he isn’t lying. It _is_ a good party. Plenty of booze, good food, music playing loud enough to bother the neighbours. Except, considering how many festively dressed people are crowded into Laura’s house, most of the neighbours must be in attendance. Everyone is laughing and talking, clinking glasses and bottles, trying to be heard above the din, which only makes the din louder. 

Robbie knows a few people, enough that he doesn’t feel completely out of place. Laura, of course, and Nolan, the bloke she’s currently seeing. Peterson and his sergeant and their dates. Grainger’s sergeant. A couple of constables, a handful of civil service personnel he knows only by sight, and several of Laura’s team members. 

But almost everyone, even the coppers, are strangers to Tony, which is why Robbie’s been leaning against the edge of the table, making small talk with him while he waits for Lizzie to arrive. Something must have come up at the last minute to hold her and James over so late at work, though probably not anything too bad, else they would have called him in. 

Laura mimics his head shake and adds an eye-roll of her own. “Robbie, when are you going to stop pretending?” 

He tilts his head and taps his ear, pretending he can’t hear her over the noise. Says “What?” loudly. 

She just stares at him. And he looks right back, refusing to be baited. It isn’t the first time she’s nagged him about this subject since they’d decided to go their separate ways. 

She shakes her head and nudges him playfully. 

Across the room, Laura’s bloke scowls. 

“I wish you’d tell Roland that I’m just a friend, me.” Robbie says. “Every time he sees us talking, he frowns.” 

“His name is Nolan, and you know it.” Laura pretend-scowls up at him, too. 

And he grins. “Yeah. I know it.” 

She shakes her head again and goes off through the crowd towards Nolan. 

Robbie goes back to his observations. But passing the time trying to detect which of Laura’s tiddly friends are doctors and med techs hadn’t really been all that fascinating to begin with. And now... Well, she’s planted the idea in his head now, hasn’t she? 

She’s made him aware of what he’s really been doing all evening while he was making small talk, drinking beer, and distracting himself with people-watching. She’s made him admit, if only to himself, that all he’s really been doing is waiting for James to arrive. And reminiscing about another of her parties, many years ago, when he and James were relatively new to each other. He’d been remembering how comfortable and happy he’d been that night, sitting pressed against James in Laura’s garden swing, discussing how to extricate themselves from the party without giving offence. 

He’d been remembering how, even back then, it had been so easy to be with James, how easily James had punched through his sorrow and made him laugh. What was it that don had called James, when he’d called the nick the next day to complain about them? Facetious? As if it was yesterday, Robbie can still remember how James had looked—a slightly pissed, cheeky smile on his long face, his eyes bright with mischief—slouched against the professor’s brick wall. 

Robbie smiles. And then shakes himself out of it. What a daft sod he is, dreaming of things long past. Waiting for James to come through the door to this party. Wishing for something he can never have. He takes a big gulp of his beer. Looks around for Tony to tell him he’s going. Shouldn’t have stayed as long as he has, but he felt bad about leaving Tony on his own. But now that Lizzie’s on her way, he can say his good-byes without guilt. 

He finds Tony across the room, talking with Peterson’s sergeant about some case on which Lizzie assisted. Tony’s so enthralled that Robbie doesn’t have the heart to break in, and he listens as the sergeant tells Tony how Lizzie tripped the suspect up in an interview with a couple of sharp questions, which is no surprise to Robbie. She’s as quick as James was at that stage, with half the sarcasm and double the charm. Though, he reflects, James had charmed him easily enough. 

Robbie’s still waiting for a break in their conversation when cold air swirls around his ankles, signalling the opening of the front door. As people turn to greet the new arrivals, Robbie turns, too, and sees Jean and Lizzie come in. His heart does a quick triple beat as a tall, shadowy figure appears behind them. With a wide smile, Jean steps aside and reveals...not James, as Robbie expected...but someone dressed as Santa. 

Disappointed, Robbie starts to turn away. James must have decided to skip the party. He’d said he might. Robbie opens his mouth to tell Tony...something...but as Santa steps forward, Robbie freezes. Feet glued to the floor and tongue to the roof of his mouth. Whatever he’d been about to say catches in the back of his throat. 

Because the Santa is James. Complete with red suit trimmed in white fur and a jaunty hat brushing the top of the doorframe. A long curling beard completely disguises the lower half of his face and huge sunglasses obscure the other half, but there’s no mistaking that tall, slim Santa. 

And the thought that pops into Robbie’s mind is so rude, so lewd, that he feels as if he blushes all over. It’s like fire has suddenly raced over his whole body. 

James pauses, framed in the doorway, surrounded by the disco-like effects of Laura’s flashing outside Christmas lights. Slashes and dots of bright colour play over his shoulders, paint the white fur and beard with red and blue and green. And then he steps into the warm light of the living room, leaving the flashing lights behind. 

Half the room bursts into laughter, and the other half bursts into applause. 

James shrugs and holds out his hands, gives a sarcastic half bow, acknowledging the response. He tilts his head to the side. The curly white Santa beard covers James’s mouth, but Robbie knows it’s pulled into that straight, slightly sardonic line that’s pure James. 

Robbie backs up a step, blinks, but the image stays with him. James. Santa. Bloody hell. 

_Santa._

Robbie’s sure his cheeks are glowing as bright as the sparkling decorations, as red as James’s baggy Santa suit. The heat in his face spirals down, burning through his chest, spitting sparks into his gut like a flare. Warmth curls in his groin. And he wheels away. Because he can’t do that here. Can’t have those thoughts here, a reaction like this, here in a roomful of people. 

Several feet away, Tony smiles broadly as Lizzie pushes her way through the crowd to get to him and lifts her face for a kiss. 

“Merry Christmas, Sir!” she calls. 

Robbie manages a wobbly response and turns again, intending to make a fast getaway in the other direction. 

Innocent, glass of champagne already in hand, takes a step to the side just as he does and blocks his path. Her eyes flash like the sequins on the shawl around her shoulders. “Robbie,” she says brightly and takes a sip from her glass. “Happy Christmas!” 

“Ma’am,” is all he could manage. He knows he’s supposed to smile, because she’s taking the piss. Only last week, James had treated Robbie and Innocent to a 15-minute lecture on the historical usage of ‘Happy Christmas’ vs ‘Merry Christmas’. And Robbie had thoroughly enjoyed it despite all his eye-rolling and pretence at boredom. 

It pleases him to think that Innocent was enjoying James’s overstuffed brain as much as he was, but Robbie’s too intent on escaping before he embarrasses himself to spend any time appreciating the joke or her memory. 

But it makes him think of James, eyes bright with enjoyment, hands a flowing symphony in the air, keeping time with his words. And Robbie can’t help himself. 

He turns back and watches as James closes the door behind him and takes off his sunglasses. James accepts a glass of something from someone, nodding his appreciation, and stretches up even taller, scanning the crowd as if he’s looking for someone. 

Laura slips up behind Robbie and wraps her arm around his waist, leaning around him to look at Innocent. “Not that I mind, but why is James dressed as Santa?” 

“My garden club hosted a party for disadvantaged kids this afternoon,” Innocent answers, amusement laced through her voice. “Dawson, from SOCO, had volunteered to be Santa, but he came down sick at lunch. Flu, I’m afraid, so I imagine that’ll be making the rounds in the new year.” She frowns at that titbit of information. 

Dawson... Robbie can’t come up with an image to fit the name. 

Until Innocent brightens and says, “Guess who was the only person at the nick the right size to fit his suit?” 

And then Robbie remembers him. Tall bloke, dark hair. But bigger than James, broader in the shoulders and thicker in the waist, which explains why the Santa suit is hanging a little loose on James’s lean frame. 

Laura laughs. “I can’t believe you talked James into it.” 

“It wasn’t easy,” Innocent says. “He finally succumbed when I sighed about how sad and disappointed all those kids were going to be when Santa was a no-show.” She puts on a pretend sad expression and gives an exaggerated sigh. 

Laura and Innocent smile at each other as if they’re sharing some understanding. “Of course he did,” Laura murmurs. 

“He was really great.” Lizzie edges over to join the conversation. The undisguised admiration in her voice makes Robbie smile. Lizzie and James have come a long way from the awkward inspector and sergeant Robbie had faced when he’d first come out of retirement. 

“He absolutely refused to do ‘ho, ho, ho’.” Innocent rolls her eyes and smiles to take the sting out of her dismay. “But he played his guitar.” 

Lizzie nods. “It was marvellous. Santa playing guitar and singing Christmas songs. The kids adored him.” 

That makes Robbie smile, too. He can just imagine it...the kids gathered round James, his lovely voice holding them spellbound. Robbie wishes he’d been there to see it. 

Jean nods her agreement. “Dawson may find him a hard act to follow next year.” 

“Maybe he’ll play for us,” Laura says. 

“Slim chance,” Innocent answers. “When we got back to the nick, his clothes had gone missing.” 

“Some of the lads at the station hid them,” Lizzie supplies. “They thought it would be fun to have Santa on duty.” 

Innocent grins broadly. “And I insisted on coming straight here rather than via his flat. Which is why he’s still dressed as Santa. He’s not the happiest inspector right now. So I’d better go and ply him with booze.” And she slips away. 

Lizzie turns back to Tony, and they shift a few steps away, leaning in close to each other. 

Laura leans into Robbie. And sure enough, across the room, Nolan scowls. 

Robbie actually rather likes Laura’s new bloke. Even if he is almost 20 years her junior. Nolan seems like a good guy, and he’s obviously mad about her. But he does need to loosen up a bit. 

Robbie puts his arm around Laura’s shoulders and smiles sweetly down at her. “Your Roland is still putting the evil eye on me.”

Laura laughs up at him. “You know I’m going to slip and call him that.” She tiptoes to kiss Robbie’s jaw. “Besides, it doesn’t hurt to make him a little jealous. Keeps him on his toes. But if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were the jealous one.” 

He kisses the top of her head, pausing for a moment—Roland/Nolan be damned!—to enjoy the softness of her hair against his cheek. “Maybe I am. He’s a lucky man.” 

“Yeah, of course, you are,” she says, her gaze going pointedly back to James, who has yanked the hat and beard off and is stuffing them into the pockets of his fuzzy red trousers. 

And then James unzips the top of his Santa costume. He fans the edges of the jacket, like he’s encouraging air to swirl in under it, and Robbie’s heart does a flipflop. Underneath the Santa suit, James is wearing an Oxfordshire CID t-shirt. 

Robbie recognizes it. It’s his. Even across the room, he can see the streak of white paint that cuts across the O, making it look like a null sign. He’d done that painting the bedroom in his new flat. 

But what is James doing with his t-shirt? 

And then Robbie remembers when he’d worn it last. A couple of weeks ago, a suspect had thrown food on him, smearing his shirt and jacket with brown sauce. He hadn’t had a spare shirt in his car, so he’d worn the t-shirt while Innocent sent a constable to pick up his dry cleaning. ‘Anything to keep you two focused on the case’, she’d said. Robbie vaguely remembers stuffing the t-shirt into a desk drawer after he’d changed back into a clean shirt and tie. 

The case had been a bear, and that was the last time he’d thought of the t-shirt. But James must have wanted something to wear under the Santa suit. And remembered it was there. 

Robbie wonders if the t-shirt had smelled like him when James put it on. He wonders if James noticed. 

All the oxygen seems to sweep away from his side of the room. Heat rushes into his face again. And lower. Much lower. Again. 

He turns away from Laura and heads towards the kitchen, calling back over his shoulder, “Gonna grab another beer. You want something?” But he doesn’t wait to hear her answer, and the moment he’s out of her line of sight, he turns into the crowd and heads for the back of the room. 

Cool air. That’s what he needs. Lots of cool air. And a cold shower. Because the thoughts that keep popping into his head are so far from the Christmas spirit that it’s shameful. Going to be nothing but coal in his stocking this year, for sure. 

He slips out the back door into the garden and stops in the middle of the patio. He turns slowly, astonished at the sight all around him. 

The front of the house might look like a discotheque, but the back garden has been transformed into a magical, sparkling winter wonderland. Laura and Nolan have draped the perimeter of the garden and the back wall of the house with strings of white fairy lights. Light reflects off the snow, off the silver garland strung along the thigh-high brick wall that surrounds the patio, off the star-shaped, cut-glass ornaments that hang from the eaves and in the trees. The lights wink and glisten, reflected in the windows of the house. A coating of shimmering snow lays over everything, muffling the thrum of the party and giving the air a cold, fresh, holiday scent. 

Behind the wall of sparkling glass, Laura’s guests are bathed in warm light. Through the drinking, chattering, festive crowd, Robbie can see James. He’s still standing near the front door, blond head visible above the people who’ve crowded around him. As Robbie watches, James rocks back and laughs. Then he drinks champagne from a crystal glass that catches the light and sparkles like the frosty snow. 

It’s quite a change from that party years before when James had hidden in the garden, swigging champagne straight from the bottle. Robbie remembers telling Laura he didn’t know where James was, but he’d known exactly where James was. Robbie hadn’t even needed to search to find him, sitting alone in the dark. 

But now, Robbie’s the one hiding out, alone, in the garden. 

He turns his back on the party, sucks cold air into his lungs, and leans into the brick wall. Watches the white fog of breath that forms as he sighs. Cold seeps through his trousers, cooling his overheated skin but doing little to ease the throb of his arousal. 

“Hey.” Laura appears at his elbow so silently that he starts and almost drops his beer. “You okay?” 

He glances back at the house, surprised that he didn’t hear the door open and close or her footsteps on the crunchy snow. “Would be,” he huffs. “If you wouldn’t sneak up and scare me half out of me wits.” 

She laughs and leans against the brick wall, twisting so she can smile up at him and assess him at the same time. 

He turns away slightly, not daring to look directly at her, because he’s sure she’ll take one look at his face and suss out what he’s been thinking. 

She brushes snow off the low brick wall, turns her back on the garden, and hikes herself up into the spot she’s cleared, sitting so that she’s facing the party. So that she can see him better. “You ducked out of there so fast I thought something must be wrong.” 

“Nah, just needed some air.” 

“Robbie...” 

“It’s nothing,” he insists. “I’ve had a little too much to drink, that’s all. And I needed some air. It’s too crowded in there. And hot.” 

“Ummm...” she says. “It looked to me like it got too hot in there when James opened his Santa suit. You took off like a scalded cat.” 

He blushes. The heat that flashes across his face is such a contrast to the cold air that it feels like the temperature has suddenly dropped several degrees. 

“Robbie... Tell me.” 

He sighs. He knows there’s nothing for it. 

She won’t give up until she’s had the whole of it. And it isn’t like it’s anything she doesn’t know. They’ve lived together. Slept together. And he’s shared...maybe more of himself than he should have. And despite his reluctance to admit what he’s feeling, he knows she won’t judge, no matter how much she might nag or tease. They love each other, maybe better now as friends than they did when they were lovers. 

She elbows him. “Before my arse freezes. This brick is cold!” 

He sighs again, deeper this time, and takes a steadying swig of beer. “You know that film we watched a couple of weeks ago? At Lizzie and Tony’s? The Christmas one?”

“Love...” She wrinkles her brow, thinking. “Love something?” 

He shakes his head. “No, with Tony, after James and Lizzie got called out. The rude Christmas one.” 

Her face clears. “Bad Santa?” 

“Yeah, that one,” he says dryly. “When James walked in wearing that Santa suit...” 

Comprehension dawns on her lovely face. She leans back precariously so that she can see more of him. But instead of looking up at his face, she delicately shifts the hem of his jumper and looks at his groin. At the obvious evidence of just which part of the movie has popped into his mind. 

“Laura!” He tugs his jumper from her fingers. 

She looks back towards the patio doors to make sure they’re unobserved. “Fuck me, Santa?” she whispers with glee. Lowers her voice in a decent approximation of what he was hearing in his head, “FuckmeSanta, fuckmeSanta, fuckmeSanta!”

His face burns hotter, and he throbs, swelling harder each time she says the word. “Leave off,” he growls. But it doesn’t stop the scene playing in his head. In the movie, a beautiful, dark-haired woman had been astride a dark-haired man in a Santa suit. Riding him hard and fast. Head thrown back with abandon, gasping “Fuck me, Santa!” with every thrust. Only...in Robbie’s head it isn’t a woman with Santa. And Santa doesn’t have dark hair. 

Laura bites her lip, obviously trying to hold back her laughter. 

“You could at least pretend to be shocked,” he grumbles. 

She claps her hand over her mouth, but delighted chortles escape from underneath her palm. 

He scowls at her, looking, he’s sure, very much like Nolan had earlier. 

Laura gives up and bursts into peals of laughter. She laughs so hard she swallows wrong and chokes herself. She grabs his arm to keep from falling off her perch. Tears sparkle in her eyes as she coughs and gasps and thumps herself on the chest. 

“Not doing the Heimlich on you when you’re laughing at me,” he grumbles. 

She chokes again and laughs even harder, clinging to him. Laughs until he has to smile, and the tension slides out of him, and he has to laugh, too. He bends her over his arm so he could pat her on the back.

They might not be together as a couple now, but she can still read him like a book. And she still knows what he needs. She knows when it’s time to drag him, grousing and protesting, out of his own head. 

When she’s calmed down and got her breath back, she leans against his shoulder and strokes his back. Even through his thick jumper, her touch warms him. 

“Robbie...” she says softly, “it’s Christmas. Ask for what you want. You might be surprised at the answer.” 

He shakes his head. “It’s not like that between James and me. And even if it was...it wouldn’t be right. I’m too old for him. And too straight.” 

“Straight? Really?” She uses her hold on his arm to sit up so she can look pointedly at the hem of his jumper where he’s tugged it down over his zip. “You really want to play that card with me? Because I’ve been in your bed. And I’ve been in your head, too, and I know that’s never mattered to you. And the age difference doesn’t matter either, any more than it matters between Nolan and me.” 

“Might matter to James,” he mutters. He doesn’t bother to say that it doesn’t matter between her and Nolan because she isn’t going to keep Nolan around long enough for it to become an issue. Robbie knows her as well as she knows him. She’s having a wonderful time with scowling Nolan, but he isn’t ‘the one’. Whereas what he feels for James... He sighs. 

She shakes her head at him. Looks at him as if she despairs of him ever having any sense. Her grip on his arm becomes a caress. “I love you, Robbie Lewis, but you’re an eejit.” 

He shrugs and sighs again. “Aye, lass, you’ve probably got the right of that.” 

She hops down off the wall, brushes snow off the seat of her jeans, straightens the garland where she’s pulled it loose from the bricks. Then she pats his back and goes back into the party, leaving him to his contemplation of the sparkling garden. 

Ah, well, at least her good-natured laughter has taken the stuffing out of his arousal. So long as he doesn’t think back to that movie. To that woman riding Santa while she moans obscenities to him. So long as he doesn’t think too long on James wearing red and white fur. 

He stands there a while longer, staring out at nothing. Letting his vision slip in and out of focus and play over the lights glittering on the snow. When he starts to feel the cold slipping down into his toes, he turns to go back inside and almost falls over James. 

Bloody hell! Is his hearing going as well? How is it that two people have crunched their way across the snowy patio without him hearing? And James is standing right behind him, close enough to touch without even unbending his elbow. How is it he didn’t sense James there? 

But James couldn’t have been there long, because he has a beer in one hand and a glass of champagne that looks like it’s just been poured in the other. The golden bubbles are fizzing and fighting their way up, glinting in the twinkling light. 

“You looked empty,” James says and holds the beer out to Robbie. 

“Hey, yeah, ta.” Robbie takes it and turns back to the garden. Won’t do to stand there and look at James for too long. All that fuzzy red cloth covering his sloping shoulders. The dancing lights glinting, gold as champagne, in his hair. 

James moves to stand beside him. Not quite touching except for the brush of his elbow as he lifts his glass and drinks. Standing like they always do, just close enough that Robbie can feel the warmth of James’s body. Can smell him...cigarette smoke and champagne, cinnamon and something not James. Something too sweet. Chocolate, maybe. Or someone’s perfume. 

“Somebody at the nick hid my clothes,” James says, lifting a corner of his Santa jacket. 

Robbie tries to not to look at the flex of James’s arm encased in red or the stretch of grey t-shirt across his lean belly. “Yeah, Lizzie said.” 

And after a moment, Robbie adds, “Innocent and Lizzie said you were great with the kids. Said you were going to be a hard act for Dawson to follow next year.” 

James shrugs, but Robbie can tell he’s pleased. “They gave the kids hot chocolate and chocolate biscuits. I feel like I’m coated in it.” 

So that’s what the scent is. Robbie shivers. _James...coated in chocolate. James as Santa...coated in chocolate._

Damn, he needs to go home and take a cold shower! But if standing outside in the snow isn’t helping, cold water probably isn’t going to have much effect. 

James puts his glass down so he can wrap the edges of the red jacket tight across his body. “It’s cold out here. I think it’s going to snow again.” 

Robbie jumps at the chance to escape. “Yeah. I’m freezing. And tired. I think I’ll head out before it starts.” 

He turns to go and sees Laura standing at the windows, watching them through glass fogged with cold. She covers her hand with the sleeve of her jumper and wipes a circle clear on one of the panes. She grins at James and motions for him to... Do what? To go? To move? To come inside? 

Robbie feels James’s gaze shift from Laura to him. James catches his arm. “Before you go, don’t you want to tell me your Christmas wish?” James’s voice is low and satiny. 

It’s as far from Santa-like as Robbie can imagine a voice being. It warms his fingers and toes. It sends a shiver that has nothing to do with cold down his spine. 

Laura’s blue eyes are so full of mischief that they rival the lights for sparkle. She mouths, “Merry Christmas, Robbie.” 

His heart drops down into his stomach and he stares at her, mouth open. What has she done? He glances at James. “What?” he manages to huff out. 

James turns Robbie to face him. “Well, I’m Santa...” James takes his beer from his fingers. Leans back to put it on the wall behind them. And then he says in that snow and satin voice, “Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do? Whisper in my ear what you want for Christmas?” 

And he pushes Robbie gently, firmly, backwards. Into shadow, up against the lattice that borders one end of the patio. The vines that are wound through it are stripped and brown in the winter cold, and the bare twigs snag at Robbie’s jumper.

James leans in, pressing his Santa-clad body to Robbie’s from shoulders to knees. He’s aroused, hard and hot through the fuzzy red trousers. “Tell Santa what you want for Christmas...” James murmurs, breath hot against Robbie’s ear. 

Robbie gives up all pretence of sanity. He falls back against the wall of dead vines. A lone leaf, brittle and fragile, crunches under his fingers as he scrabbles for something to hold onto. “James...” 

It’s supposed to be a question. Firm and challenging. _What are you doing? What’s going on?_ But it comes out as a whisper filled with longing. A whisper in Santa’s ear. His Christmas wish. His strongest, dearest wish. _James._

And Santa whispers back, “That present’s already under your tree, waiting to be unwrapped. Has been for years.”

James leans into Robbie so hard that the lattice creaks in protest. James frames his face with gentle, cold hands and presses his mouth to Robbie’s. Kisses him, nibbles at his bottom lip. James smells like cigarettes and snow, and he tastes like champagne. His lips are cold, but his tongue, sliding across Robbie’s bottom lip in a lazy, sensual caress, is warm. James breathes into him until Robbie’s heart lights up, sparkles as bright as Christmas lights on snow. 

Robbie groans and clings to James’s strong, fuzzy shoulders. 

James’s lips move across his face, touching his cheek and the corner of his eye and then the tip of his ear. He murmurs, “Come on. Let’s go somewhere more private. This party’s too crowded. And it’s starting to snow.” Then he steps back. 

Without James’s weight pressing into him, Robbie stumbles. 

James catches his arm and steadies him. Wraps his arms around Robbie’s waist and pulls him back into an embrace. 

“James...” This time, Robbie manages the proper tone, communicating all his concern with just the one word. Revealing his fear. Warning that they shouldn’t. That they can’t. 

And James says, simply, firmly, “No. We’ve wasted enough time.” He smiles. “And Santa doesn’t allow take-backs.”

Behind James, snow drifts down from the dark sky into the shimmering light. 

Fat flakes land on Robbie’s hands where he’s holding onto James’s shoulders, on Robbie’s flushed cheeks. They melt against the heat of his skin, become liquid snow, droplets like tears. 

James leans in, tastes the dampness on his face with a delicate flick of his tongue. 

It takes Robbie’s breath away. 

Then James kisses him again, tongue wet and cold with melted snow. James slides his fingers underneath the collar of Robbie’s jumper. Strokes the back of his neck. 

And Robbie feels as if he could stand in there in the snow for hours and never feel the cold. Never know that he was freezing. Not with James kissing him, James’s hands on him. Not with the warmth of James blanketing him. The intensity of the possibilities surging inside him are like a fire burning bright and hot. They’re overwhelming. Terrifying. Exhilarating. 

He has to pull away to breathe, to steady himself. 

Over James’s shoulder, he can see Laura beaming at them through the window. She blows them a kiss, and James turns and mouths, ‘Thank you, Santa’. 

There’s almost no breath behind the words, but Robbie hears them. He gapes at her, then at James. Why is James thanking—? 

James tugs Robbie towards the end of the patio. 

Against the bright anticipation in James’s glittering eyes, the warm clasp of his hand, Robbie’s resistance melts like snow on skin. 

After a quick glance at the party, at Laura, he allows himself to be towed to the edge of the patio, into the sparkling garden. His feet crunch and crackle through the older layers of snow as he follows James across the lawn. Robbie knows he should be trying to think. But he won’t let himself. He just moves—questions and concerns shoved aside, brain whirring with disbelief, heart pounding with excitement. And sifting through him, like sparkling snow falling silent and beautiful, is a joy so bright that it seems his chest can’t contain it. 

As James stops to open the gate, he opens his Santa jacket and pulls Robbie in close, wrapping the edges of the fluffy red fabric as far around him as it will go. 

Swathed in James’s heat and scent, Robbie shivers. The soft fur of James’s collar tickles his jaw and silent snowflakes catch on his lashes and brush his cheeks. He tilts his face up, anticipating another mindblowing kiss. 

But James leans closer, touches his lips to Robbie’s ear instead of his mouth, and whispers, “I’ve seen that movie, too, you know. But it’s called Badder Santa, and it’s the x-rated version.” 

###  
  



End file.
